


Solitaire

by magnificent



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Buxom Babes, Captivity, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Ghouls, Height Kink, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Soulmate AU, Strong Female Characters, dark!Hancock, smol raisin boy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-22 07:01:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11375013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnificent/pseuds/magnificent
Summary: Soulmate AU: Tia and Hancock do not meet under the best circumstances.After waking up in the Vault, Tia survives for a few tenuous days before a betrayal takes both Nate and her faith in humanity. Swearing to never open herself up again, Tia becomes the reclusive lone wolf outside of Goodneighbor. When circumstances bring Tia and Hancock together, their biggest concern isn't trying to stay together--rather, it's how they can avoid killing each other.





	1. Prologue

_ Diamond City, 2253 _

“Push!” The air is filled with blood, sweat, and the strained urgings of an exhausted doctor. A thin, reedy cry is the constant undertone, the keening wail of a mother thirteen hours into an excruciating birth.

“Please, darling, you’re almost there,” the husband says desperately. “Not much more now. You’re so close, we’re so close.”

The light in the operating room is dim; it’s well past midnight, and light sources are scant. Only a few aged LEDs hang from the ceiling, relics from a bygone era. However, it shines brightly enough to make the wet hair of the blonde woman gleam. Her face is a rictus grimace of pain as she fights her body, fights the urge to shut down. Blood seeps from between her legs, no matter how often the doctor wipes it away.

The woman whispers a curse and takes a deep breath. Patrick McDonough forces a calm smile and wipes the sweat off of her forehead with shaking fingers.

“He’s gonna be a handful,” Martha says, closing her eyes against the pain.

“He?” Patrick’s face reflects his surprise despite the tense situation —Martha is struggling, but there is a chance that she will die. Chances that are increasing steadily with each hour that their child fights the birth. It’s as if he,  _ or she,  _ as Martha had been calling the baby, is doing all it can to remain in the womb, exercising all its infantile might to hide away in the darkness.

_ Mary Clementine McDonough.  _ The only name that Martha had liked, it’s what they’ve been calling their baby for the past five months. The fact that she has suddenly stopped is enough to make Patrick truly fear for her life.

“Yes,  _ he,”  _ Martha says. A sharp silence. She grits out, “Only a boy could cause this much trouble.”

Patrick laughs, relieved. “Yes, of course, darling. A little brother for our Oliver. What do you want to name him? Anything.”

“Push on the next contraction,” the doctor interjects, looking harried. His hands are clamped onto the edge of the table, as if bracing himself for a crashing wave. A line of sweat runs from his hairline to the tip of his nose. It hangs there, poised.

“John,” Martha says at last, and her body clenches and convulses.

“I can see the head!” the doctor shouts, and in a few minutes, a bloody and squalling infant is being wiped down with practiced hands.

“Congratulations on your newborn son,” he tells Patrick, and Martha lets out a sob of relief. “Healthy as a horse, if the volume of his crying is anything to go by.”

“Let me hold him,” Martha begs, and as she stretches out her arms, the words on her left forearm stand out in sharp relief:  _ I have never seen a more beautiful woman.  _ The very first words he had ever spoken to his wife. Patrick smiles fondly at the soulmark, and his eyes turn to his son.  _ John. _

“Does he have one?” he asks hesitantly.

Not all children are born with soulmarks. A scant few are born without, either because they will never meet their soulmate, or simply because they do not have one. The more religious of the wastelands say that it's because these children are born without souls. Patrick doesn't believe this, but unmarked children are ostracized for a lifetime.

He wants his son to find happiness.

Martha's fingers capture his flailing hand, holds John's tiny arm still. There's a thin line of beautiful cursive text running across his left arm.

Patrick sighs in relief.

Martha reads, her voice falling flat,  _ “Where the fuck do you think you're going, you goddamn fucking son of a bitch?” _

Two beats of silence.

Slowly, Martha rolls back her head and sinks into the pillows. Curses again. “I think we're going to have our hands full with this one.”

 

* * *

 

 

_ Diamond City, 2259 _

“Wait up, Ollie!”

Martha smiles and wipes her hands on the hem of her patchwork apron. Her sons. Wild boys, both of them, but she loves them just the same. Ollie, however, as naughty as he is, can't compare to John's perniciousness. John is as mischievous as he is tow-headed. Martha keeps his hair cut short because he’s always getting filthy, either from pranks played on him by his older brother, or because trouble finds John like a magnet. His beautiful, curly blond hair would always come back caked in mud or garbage or, on a few horrifying occasions, blood. Martha couldn’t count high enough to say just how many times she’d seen angry Diamond City guards chasing her boy. In fact, she’s surprised that he isn’t being chased right now.

_ Thwack.  _ Martha shakes her head.  _ Ollie, are you asking to be grounded? You know better than to practice your right hook on your little brother. _

Well, she’ll punish him when he comes in for supper. Even if he’s just been decked in the face, John seems like he’s having fun. She doesn’t want to spoil that, not when happiness is so precious and rare in the apocalypse. Diamond City might be one of the best places to live, but circumstances are always changing.

She knows that well enough. She hasn’t always lived in Diamond City.

John ducks Ollie’s next blow and lashes out with a fierce grin.

He’s tough, even as a little boy, even with his nose bleeding and possibly broken. He didn’t cry, like most of the upper crust kiddos would; he’s a tough little waif, through and through. He’s determined but forgiving, unwilling to be angry with his big brother for what would be considered cruelty to normal six-year olds. He is grinning even as the blood drips off his chin.

“He's a scrapper,” Patrick says, coming up behind her.

“That he is,” Martha agrees.

Her husband frowns. “I’m going to have to have a word with Oliver about beating on his little brother. That’s the second time Johnny’s nose has been broken  _ this year.  _ If this keeps up, he’s going to look like a thug. There’s only so many times you can reset a broken nose.”

“It’ll make him tough,” Martha says. “Oliver’s being too hard on him, but it’s doing him good. He’s tougher than any of the other boys in Diamond City.”

“He gets that from you,” Patrick says, kissing her with a pleased noise. “But we’re in Diamond City! The Jewel of the Commonwealth! It’s okay if he’s not the toughest.”

“He might not always be here,” Martha says steadily, looking at her sons.

“Martha…”

The pair of them stand together, an elegant man and woman dressed in what used to be the height of pre-War fashion; his suit is faded and stained, and her red dress is ill-fitting and ragged. Diamond City residents, sure, but they’re nothing compared to the citizens of the Upper Stands.

For more than one reason.

“You’re never safe,” Martha says. “First rule of being a raider. You never, ever let down your guard. Otherwise, you’ll have something come and bite you in the ass.”

Patrick’s face twists at her words, and Martha feels a low burn of shame. She knows he hates to hear about her past. That he’s only ever wanted her to be a pretty little housewife, demure and blushing and sweet like all the other simpering ladies of the City.

She loves Patrick, but that can never be who she is. Not with the things she’s done. The things she’s seen.

“I don’t want to think about anything happening to my boys,” Martha continues. “But I want them to be strong. Just in case.”

“I know,” Patrick says softly. “They’ll be safe. I’ll make sure of that. And, well, even if we do have to leave Diamond City, we’ll all rely on you then, hm?”

Martha sees the pinched expression on her husband’s face, the awkward and forced smile, and she loves him even more, for acknowledging who she is, despite his fears and disappointment with her past. Because he sees her for who she is—and who she was.

_ Please, God,  _ she prays,  _ let my boys find the same. _

 


	2. Tia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I wanted to thank y'all for reading, and I thought I'd let you know that this will get updated regularly, (more regularly than the other fics because I write this when there's nothing to do at work) so hopefully once a month or more. This is my first Fallout 4 fic, and I'm very grateful that you're giving it a chance.  
> Cheers!

Tia Vernell sits with her boot propped up against the windowsill, her hair tied back in a bloody mess, shotgun dangling from listless hands, and listens to the rain. It pounds on the tin roof, turning what should have been a quiet summer storm into a cacophony of creaking and clattering; she can’t imagine that it could get much louder. It already sounds like someone’s dropped a bucket of marbles overtop their heads.

Codsworth is puttering quietly behind her, disassembling scavenged weapons, sorting the parts into piles of  _ perfect, good, fair,  _ and  _ scrap.  _ The scrap will be melted down into bullets. Maybe tools, if Tia’s ready to start any long-term projects.

Truth be told, she’s not sure yet. Doesn’t know if this place that she’s been living in for the past three months is the area that she’s going to dig down in and claim for good. She’s been around the area a good bit, killing anything and anyone who strays onto her turf.

Warning shots first, of course, if she’s feeling magnanimous, but she’ll shoot the shit out of anyone who she doesn’t like the looks of upon sight. Doesn’t matter who they are, either, whether it’s ghouls or humans or raiders or Super Mutants or caravans. Experience has taught her to be wary. It’s taught her to not trust anyone.

Even if it weren’t, the scar loping down her belly is a damn good reminder. An ugly and deep monstrosity of poorly-healed scar tissue, it hurts even on good days, and it pulls at her muscles every time she moves.

She hasn’t spoken to anyone other than Codsworth since the day of the scar. She might have been lonely, if she were the type to  _ get  _ lonely. But she has Codsworth, and she has some books from Nate’s house, and she records stories and dreams that she’s had in her Pip-Boy (the damn thing seems to have near-unlimited memory). She gets a little bored sometimes, sure, but only in a sort of restless way, the kind of feeling that steals over her when she’s just come back from setting traps all over her turf, where she’s waiting for someone to blunder through them and blow themselves into a million pieces.

She doesn’t need anyone. No one alive, anyway. Codsworth is the only thing that’s safe, the only one she can trust. He can’t help it, though. He’s programmed to serve her family. Even with Nate dead, he’s stayed with her, even though Tia wasn’t his real owner, per say. Back-up settings, she thinks, serving her since she’s the only next of kin.

“Miss Tia,” Codsworth says, startling her, “My sensors are detecting a fair number of people approaching the perimeter. Shall I take a closer look?”

“No need,” Tia says, swinging her legs down from the sill. “I’ll come with. Which part?”

“The main entrance,” Codsworth says, and her frown deepens. The main entrance? The one that she leaves through maybe twice a month for supply runs? The one with the barbed wire gate and the massive signs that say  _ No Trespassing  _ and  _ Intruders will be shot _ ? Not exactly subtle. Tia wanted to make sure that no one peaceful would make the mistake of coming in, and so far she’d been fairly successful. Of course, there were always a few scant situations where travelers entered, fleeing Super Mutants. In those cases, Tia was their eye in the sky, lobbing grenades and taking unrestricted shots at the aggressors. Often times, the people she’d saved would want a word, and she’d fire warning shots several yards away until they left.

Sometimes, they gave her tokens of appreciation. Booze. Bullets. Fancy Lad Snack Cakes. Those were good days. Made her rethink her lifestyle, wondering if maybe she was being overly paranoid.

And then her scar would tug at her guts and she’d scowl and forget all about coming out of her turf to find someone to talk to.

“Think they’re running from something?” she asks, as her and Codsworth make their way along the crumbling rooftops.

“They do not appear to be in any hurry, mum,” the robot says. “My hearing is a little better than yours, and… oh dear…”

Tia hisses for him to fall back as they near their trespassers, not wanting to alert them with the rather noisy rush of Codsworth’s propulsion engines, and crawls forward for the last few roofs until she’s lying flat on her belly, as close to the edge near the entrance as she can get without them spotting her.

It’s pretty clear why Codsworth was alarmed.

“No… no way, man! I’m not going in there!”

“For the last time, brother,” comes a rasping voice, and Tia’s ears prick up at the cadence of his voice. It could be that she hasn’t heard anyone but Codsworth in a very long time, but his  _ voice…  _ it’s so rich and warm, like the feeling of brandy sliding down her throat, without any of the foul taste. Low and masculine.

She wonders, for a moment, what he looks like. Tall, probably, with how full his voice is. Someone broad and solid. Maybe a smoker, with that rasp… but it doesn’t sound as harsh as it should, more of a dangerous, sexy growl than larynx damage.  _ God, what a voice. _

But he’s still talking.

“I don’t give a shit,” the man says. “You wanna prove you’re worth more to me alive than dead? You can start with killing the nutcase in there.”

_ Ah.  _ Hazing. Is it hazing?  _ Do people still do that, two hundred years later?  _ Tia shakes her head. Probably a raider thing. Or maybe they’re someone from a nearby settlement. But something about this exchange…

“I swear I didn’t mean to cheat you, Hancock,” comes the first man’s trembling voice. “How was I to know it was expired? I don’t do that stuff! I just sell it!”

“Magnolia almost died because of your stupidity,” the sexy, drawling voice says. “If I were you, I’d be grateful for this chance. Count your blessings. You still have all your fingers.”

“All the better to count with, huh?” grunts another man.

The group of men and women laugh together at that, and then there’s the sound of a gun cocking.

“Mayor Hancock, please…”

“Get in there,” the rasping voice says, and Tia shivers in hatred and disgust. Rather rapid turn-around from the feelings she’d gotten from hearing him speak before.  _ Mayor?  _ This guy’s in charge of a town?  _ Him?  _ Her fingers clench reflexively.  _ Bastard…  _ “Kill the lowlife in there. Bring me his head. And then we can call it even.”

Was it bad that he still sounded hot, regardless of the awful things he’s been saying?

Probably. But that won’t exactly save him from Tia. She’s not some dumbass broad with a brain the size of a peanut. Hell, she’d kill Adonis himself if he was as foul as this creep. No matter how sexy someone is, it doesn’t excuse them from their actions. Tia reflects, as she hears the gate clang shut and the terrified man walk deeper into her turf, that if there was a really wonderful man with the face of a radscorpion, she’d be more interested in  _ that _ than Mr. Sexy Voice.

_ Fuck,  _ she thinks with a sigh,  _ I guess I really am getting lonely. _

Tia bites her lip— _ shit, the traps!  _ None of them are disarmed, and there’s a guy wandering around who has no business being here.

Quickly, she falls back to Codsworth, who’s patiently waiting on the rooftop a few dozen yards away, closer to the center of their turf. “We have a visitor,” she tells him, “although I guess you heard all that?”

“Yes, mum, just terrible!” The robot sounds truly distressed, and Tia wonders yet again just how much of his personality is programming. Sometimes she thinks that Codsworth is really a  _ he  _ rather than an  _ it.  _ Could just be her loneliness talking, though. She’s smarter than that. Robots aren’t sentient.

Just programming. And her natural predisposition to assign anthropomorphic characteristics to inanimate objects.

“That poor fellow…” Codsworth trails off. “Mum, we simply must do something!”

“Mm,” Tia agrees. “Go down and try to disarm some of the traps; if you can talk to him without him killing you, do it. I don’t want him dead.”

“And what about those miscreants outside the walls?”

“Don’t you worry about them,” Tia says, and  _ god  _ she loves the sound of her shotgun as she cocks the weapon. “I’ve got this under control.”

 

* * *

 

_ Shit—the hell’s your problem? _

Tia Vernell’s parents were never very happy with the fact that their daughter had not one, but  _ two  _ swear words written across her arm from the moment of her birth. Worse yet was when Tia learned to read, and found out that what her parents had  _ told  _ her was written there and what was  _ actually  _ written there were two very different things.

Tia liked to joke that when she met her soulmate, she’d first fix his dirty mouth, and then his handwriting. The scrawl across her left forearm was nearly illegible. As if a second-grader had written it.

It was an easy way to laugh off the oddity of the soul mark. Make a silly joke about the situation. Nevermind the fact that their first meeting was apparently a tense and stressful one, and maybe that he didn’t like her upon sight—definitely not normal for soul mates. There was usually some sort of attraction at first. An invisible bond, a yearning. Consummation of the soul bond upon touch.

It made Tia wonder what kind of relationship she’d have with her soulmate. Would they grow to love each other? Or would their first exchange set the tone for the rest of their relationship?

Not all soul mates stay together. In later years, she’d considered that too. There are certain situations where someone could have a soul mate that they fall away from, whether because of infidelity or abuse or personality conflicts. In those cases, one or both members of the pair seek happiness with an unmarked person instead, if they choose to marry.

Nate had been one of those people. Unmarked. A lightly-tanned expanse of blank skin on his left forearm. Growing up, he’d been shy about the fact that he didn’t have a soul mark, but as he grew into puberty, it became a point of pride. There was nothing tying him down, nothing making him wait for his one and only. He could have anyone that he’d wanted without feeling any sort of pressure, guilt, or obligation.

Of course, all that changed when he met Nora.

Tia shakes her head, pushing away thoughts of Nate as she creeps forward along the rooftops.  _ Stay focused. Now isn’t the best time to dwell on the past. _

The group of people below are quiet as they make their way towards the other entrance; it jarrs Tia, just how well they know her territory. The exterior of it, at any rate. It’s as if they have it mapped out. Knowing exactly where her fences are, where her turf extends. Just thinking about it makes her hackles rise.

“Think he’ll make it?” a woman asks.

“William couldn’t find his way out of a paper bag,” Hancock spits. “I should have known better to buy from him.”

“You couldn’t have known,” the woman replies. “I mean, it’s not like you gave anything to Magnolia without trying it first, right?”

“It was a mixed batch,” Hancock says grudgingly. “I tried some for myself, made sure it was okay. You know Mags; she’s a lightweight. Didn’t wanna knock her out, just wanted her to settle down for a couple of hours. It seemed fine. Didn’t even bother to look at the rest.” At the last sentence, Hancock’s rasping voice lowers down to a growl of self-derision.

_ Well.  _ At least there’s more to the story, Tia thinks. But to kill a man for a mistake? They themselves had said that this… Magnolia lady… that she was going to be alright. Even if she  _ wasn’t,  _ that would hardly be a cause to kill him. Lock him up, sure. Selling something that could kill a person, without checking it well enough, that’s criminal neglect. Or malpractice.

Tia doesn’t know. Nora was the lawyer, not her.

“Don’t blame yourself, Mayor,” a man says. “Any of us could’a made the same mistake.”

A short silence. Tia takes the time to drop down through the hatch in the roof, silently, and kneels at the safe in the floor. 

“Why’re you going to so much effort t’kill him, though?” the same man asks. “Dragging him all the way out here?”

“Teaches people not to cross me,” Hancock says, and Tia can just imagine him, this huge, hulking, smug bastard with a mean smile. Idly, as she assembles her gun in the small office, the ceiling hatch still popped, she puts a face to the voice. She imagines that he’d be… blond, maybe, with blue eyes. The sort of jerk-off bastard that she’d met at frat parties and hated instantly. Someone good-looking, confident, and with an ego the size of a planet. The kinda guy who’d get elected just because he’s popular. Like as if there was no point in voting for someone who was actually capable just because, if Hancock exists, why even bother trying for someone else?

She hefts her gun up onto the roof with a little more gusto than necessary, and the metal clatters against the edge of the hatch.  _ Damn. _

“You hear that?” one of them says uncertainly.

They all fall silent, and Tia freezes, poised half out of the hatch, her arms straining. She bites her lip.  _ Don’t move, they can’t see you, don’t move… _

There’s an explosion in the distance, and Tia curses silently. That was either William or Codsworth.  _ I hope they’re still alive.  _ If not…  _ If not, it’s Hancock’s fault,  _ she growls, and pulls herself out of the hatch and back onto her belly.  _ Dammit! If anything happened to William, then Hancock’s got blood on his hands. Even if he didn’t kill him directly. And if something’s happened to Codsworth… _

Tia listens to the group below her whooping and laughing, all of them talking at once, betting on which one of them is dead, and Tia can’t take it anymore. Biting the inside of her mouth furiously, she edges to the lip at the end of the rooftop, takes aim at the brown-haired bastard laughing the loudest, and pulls the trigger.


	3. Hancock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tia and Hancock exchange a few words.

One minute Hancock’s standing in the street, the next he’s knocked on his ass by an explosion that leaves his ears ringing.

He hears screaming and fire crackling, sudden, disorienting. There's a blaze just a few yards away, the smell of charred and burning flesh. He’s quick to react, leaping up, ignoring his scuffed palms and checks his frock coat.

Stupid, of course, but neither him nor the coat are replaceable. Fortunately, it’s not even singed; he was standing on the edge of the group, pacing towards the other entrance, when the shot went off.

“Rocket launcher!” Fahrenheit shouts, and he hears her dimly, as if from the opposite end of a two-mile tunnel. He’s grateful to see that she’s unharmed, but Finn is dead—no real loss there—and bits of Efraim are splattered all over the tarmac.  _ That  _ makes him a great deal more angry, and he whips the shotgun from his back and sends off a few brief shots at the dark-haired figure on the roof. The spread goes wide.  _ Damn. _

The next rocket misses them by a good twenty-five feet, with the two of them running for their lives, and Hancock is grateful to see Fahrenheit dart into a building; she’ll be much safer in there.

_ Fwooom!  _ The third rocket explodes right on his heels, and he stumbles. He’s righted himself and sprinting away before the fucker up on the roof can get another shot at him.

There’s another deep sound, and Hancock swears that he can feel the earth shake. He chances a look over his shoulder, and yes— _ shit _ —the rocket launcher guy is running after him.  _ My god, he’s built like a tank! _ At least he doesn’t have the launcher with him still. Instead, he’s got a shotgun slung over his back—Hancock caught a glimpse of the stock.

Still, Hancock doesn’t think that the man even  _ needs  _ the gun. He’s easily the tallest person he’s ever seen, and in his panic, the man seems almost Super Mutant-esque in his stature. Tall and  _ wide.  _ He could probably rip Hancock apart with his bare hands.

Hancock darts down an alley, his boots pounding on the asphalt. Spots a fire escape, and leaps for it, catching the last rung with calloused hands—the rain  _ almost  _ makes him slip—and swings up easily. He smirks as he climbs, reaching the top and throwing himself onto the roof right as the rocket launcher guy fires his shotgun.  _ Hah!  _ Escaped,  _ finally.  _ Hancock takes a couple of deep breaths. Fat lug like that could never jump high enough to reach that last rung—

The building starts shaking.  _ Shit!  _ Hancock readies his shotgun.  _ How the fuck did the guy manage to get himself up there, he…  _ ah. His height. Dammit, he probably didn’t even need to jump for it.

The brute is smarter than he looks, though, because he doesn’t immediately come charging up the fire escape, towards Hancock and his shotgun, his finger on the trigger and steadied hands; instead, there’s a pause, and a  _ clink-clink-clink  _ of a gun-metal gray sphere rolling towards him…

“Fuck!” Hancock gasps, and dives.

The grenade blows a hole through the roof, one that Hancock barely manages to avoid as he desperately clings to the gutter of the opposite building.  _ What is it with this guy and explosives?  _ But there’s no time for thinking, the guy is making his way towards him, he can hear his cautious footsteps on the powdery edge of the rooftop… probably the only reason he isn’t shooting now is because he’s afraid of losing his footing.

No time. No time to run,  _ nothing.  _ If he pulls himself up and keeps going along the rooftop, he’ll be shot down before he can get even halfway across.

_ Shit. _

Hancock lets himself fall.

In hindsight, as he hits the ground and hears a  _ crunch,  _ feels himself crumple, his left leg unable to support his weight—he thinks that this was probably not the best idea he’s ever had. Still. Probably better than getting shot.

Hancock digs into his pocket, rifles around;  _ Jet, Mentats, Jet, more Jet… come on, shit!  _ A syringe, hiding in the bottom of his pocket.  _ Finally.  _ The Psycho will give him the best fighting chance. But… maybe…

He reaches into his left pocket, whips out the Stealth Boy, slaps it on his wrist, and turns it on just as the beast on the roof reaches the edge.

From this distance, at this time of evening, with the rain, Hancock can barely see the guy’s face. He can  _ just  _ make out a firm jaw, dark gleaming eyes. With his adrenaline barely starting to wear off, he’s able to take in the man’s bulk more clearly. And yes, it’s just as he’d thought. This guy is  _ huge.  _ Well above six feet tall, and wider than any human should be. Enormous, powerful shoulders. It’s no surprise that he was able to heft a rocket launcher so easily.

That shadowed face glares down at him in the dark, and Hancock shivers despite himself. Deep breath. Hancock glances down, holds out a hand. He can see straight through himself, a slight shimmer in the air the only thing that reveals his location. And with the rain, that shimmer should be mitigated down to almost nothing. Even better that it’s dusk.

_ Shit.  _ The  _ rain. _

He can see him. Just as Hancock sees the man’s eyes narrow in the increasing darkness, sees him raise his shotgun, Hancock flees, dragging his broken leg. The bullet spray cracks the wall as he slips around the corner.

_ Damn this weather!  _ If it weren’t raining, Hancock might have had a chance. The Stealth Boy would actually  _ hide  _ him instead of making him a vague outline in the rain. The drops hitting his shoulders are more than enough to expose him to the other man. And since he’s sopping wet, if he tries to hide in a doorway, his wet footprints will give him away.  _ Dammit! _

He hears a low  _ thud,  _ and a splash, and he knows that the hulking bastard is after him again. Right before he can curse and reach into his pocket for his Psycho, the only thing that might save him yet, there’s a heavy hand on the back of his neck, squeezing, jerking him to a stop.

The man snarls,  _ “Where the fuck do you think you're going, you goddamn fucking son of a bitch?” _

 

* * *

 

_ Diamond City, 2262: Twenty-five years ago _

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going, you stupid son of a bitch?” a voice snarls. Immediately, John freezes, his eyes wide, and nearly trips over his own feet.  _ The soul mark!  _ But… that can’t be… because…

He yelps as a meaty hand comes crashing down on his shoulder, spinning him around, and the apple he’d stolen from the grocer is swiped out of his hand. The man, a beefy, red-faced thug with a heavy scar down the side of his face, is scowling.

“Wh… what did you say?” John squeaks.

The man’s face softens, just a little, although he still looks irritated. “Sorry, kid, didn’t mean no disrespect to yer mum.”

“No, I…” He doesn’t mention that she’s dead; she’s been gone for two and a half years now, and it’s already difficult to remember her face. Helplessly, John gestures to his arm, and the grocer leans in to read it. All at once, a booming laugh issues from his mouth and he shakes his head.

“Oh,  _ fuck,  _ no. I ain’t yer mate, and thank God. I’d kill myself before the week was out.” The grocer rolls up his sleeve, and in neat print, John reads,  _ Don’t you have better things to be doing?  _ “I already found mine, ‘n I didn’t say yers word for word anyway.”

John sighs, and backs up a few more steps. He’s grateful too. He can’t imagine anyone scarier than the enormous grocer, a man he’s seen several times but has never spoken to. At nine years old, he’s still little enough that when he looks up, he can barely meet the grocer’s eyes. He doesn’t know much about what soul mates are supposed to do with each other, but he knows it means you have to spend a lot of time together, and he thinks that would be scary.

“Well, listen up, cuz I’m only gonna say this once: stay the fuck away from my stall. I don’t ever want to catch you stealin’ from me again.” The grocer leans in, his face still beet-red, and growls, “Or else I’ll pull yer faggot-ass guts outta yer mouth.”

John bites down, holding his tongue. He’s getting old enough now that he knows a lot of swears, but is still learning when and when he shouldn’t speak. He’s gotten the shit beaten out of him by the older boys enough times to not spew something hot-headed just cuz he’s mad. Ollie had said a few times, wryly, that he was lucky he was young enough to get baby teeth knocked out, because at least those’ll grow back.

But apparently he hasn’t learned that lesson well enough, because as the terrifying grocer stomps away, he bursts out, “Try that, and I’ll bite off yer fucking hand.”

The grocer wheels around. “What the hell?”

“You heard me.”

For a long moment, they stare at each other, the grocer in furious disbelief, whereas John was less focused on the man and more on the apple that he was still holding. He’d noticed, that in his surprise, he’d loosened his grip on the fruit.

His stomach growls.

“Radroach!” John shouts, and lunges for the apple.

As he runs, he grins, knowing that he’s stolen himself one more day to live.

 

* * *

 

 

_ 2287: Present day _

The man’s words don’t even strike him, he’s heard variations of them so many times. And his adrenaline is too high. He squirms, furiously, but the asshole behind him has got a grip firmer than a Super Mutant. Not that he’s had the pleasure of being personally manhandled by one; he probably wouldn’t still be alive if that were the case; but then again he doesn’t think that he’ll survive this encounter either.

“Shit—the hell’s your problem?” he blusters, trying to ignore the feeling of impending death breathing down his neck. With a shudder, the Stealth Boy flickers and wears off. He sees his body shimmer into sight, all at once. The hand around his neck grips harder, and he gasps in a lungful of air, certain that it’ll be his last. Croaks (his last words?), “Fuck, let me go!”

Pathetic.

But it works. The hand falls away, and he rubs his neck, wondering how quickly he can get to his knife and stick it through the bastard’s ribs before he finishes the job on his neck. Maybe if it were any other man, he’d risk it, thinking he’d have a chance. With this guy? He’s not gonna try his luck. He’s just seen him leap off of two second-story buildings in the matter of minutes, almost overtake him in a sprint, and nearly kill him five times. Obviously, he’s not the sort to fuck around with.

“What did you say?” the man asks, a quiet rumble.

“Look, man—” Hancock says, turning around, and wonders what on earth he can fill in with to try to save his life. He’s always been known for his silver tongue; although, the way his luck is going, he’ll be dead before he can say another word.

But the man doesn't try to kill him, doesn't even reach for his weapon.

“Your sleeve,” the man says a little desperately, and gestures, like he doesn’t want to get any closer.

And Hancock _realizes._

He feels a sense of creeping dread—this was the moment he’d been waiting for. Over thirty-four years. And yet he’s panicking, his hands suddenly sweaty, his broken leg so painful that he staggers. He sways against the brick wall, his mouth dry. His right hand tugs at his left sleeve tentatively, and he looks over the man more carefully.

Hancock isn’t sure what to think about his soul mate being a man. He’s had sex with men plenty of times, it’s not that he isn’t physically attracted to them; but he’s always thought his soul mate would be a woman, had  _ hoped _ that it’d be a woman. He’s always felt more comfortable with a female partner, the ease with which he can make them blush, the fact that the ladies of the wastes tend to take better to being taken care of, that they’re more willing to let themselves be coddled and protected.  _ That’s  _ what he’d wanted. A kept woman, someone soft and untouched and, well,  _ wifely.  _ This guy looks more like the type to fuck him against a wall and toss him into a dumpster when he's finished.

Well… that might be a little unfair. He  _ is  _ Hancock's soul mate after all. He can't be all that terrible, can he?  _ You're supposed to attracted to your soul mate, right?  _ But maybe that's not how it works. Maybe he'll get what he deserves instead of what he wants. This hulking brute, glaring at him like he's still considering killing him… that's probably not far off from what he deserves. Bastard like him, who killed Finn and Efraim, he probably deserves Hancock, too.  _ What sort of person would ya have to be to get saddled a junkie ghoul, anyway? _

His fingers are shaking as he pulls up his sleeve, and he shivers as he imagines the size of his soul mate’s cock.  _ He's a giant… god, I hope the damn thing isn't proportional.  _ Hancock enjoys a good fucking now and then, but he's not interested in the pain involved with getting shafted by a dick the approximate size and length of his forearm.

The man shakes his head when he sees Hancock's soul mark. “No. No fucking way. I'm not getting paired up with you.”

“Let me see yours?” Hancock asks desperately, hoping that they're wrong. That this was a mistake. Hell, if it is, he'll let the bastard go. He can live his whole life in the turf outside Goodneighbor for all he cares, and he'll leave him alone outta thanks for not being bonded to him.

But… if he is…

The man's got on heavy armor, bits and pieces of mismatched leather and metal all sewn together, and the sleeve doesn't roll well. He has to strip off his gloves to pull at the material, and Hancock notices that his uncovered hands are surprisingly delicate.

And… yep, there it is.  _ Goddamn it.  _ His own words, his own fucking handwriting.

Hancock lets out a shaky sigh, a humorless laugh. “Guess we have some things to talk about, yeah?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wasteland headcanon: poor nutrition makes everyone in the apocalypse short. And with the availability of food and vitamins in present time, people are very tall and only getting taller. Therefore, Hancock is pretty damn short, and Tia is a goddamn giant. That, combined with the fact that it's dark and raining, would easily be enough for him to confuse her for a man.  
> Poor Tia... we'll see how she deals with this misunderstanding in the next chapter. :D


	4. Tia v2

Tia cannot fucking believe her luck. And  _ not  _ in the good way. She knew meeting him would be a real fuckin’ trial, but  _ this? Him?  _ Goddamn Mayor Hancock. The man with the sexy smooth voice, the same man who's responsible for sending a man to his death, to try to kill  _ her. _

_ Son. Of. A. Bitch. _

And he's short. That's almost the worst part, in a ridiculous, laughable kind of way. He's… what, five foot two? Five foot four, at most. Of course, shorter with his shoes off. Do those boots have a heel?  _ Ugh. _

Tia’s always been taller than average. She was the team captain of her college volleyball team for good reason. Nearly six and a half feet tall, two hundred and eighty pounds, she's been above average both in height and muscle for most of her life. Nate was a mere half-inch taller.

She thought—no, she  _ knew _ —that her soul mate would be taller than her. How could he not be? But here he is, skin and bones, and… fuck, how high does he come up in her chest? He's eye-level with her nipples, isn't he.  _ Shit, he  _ is. 

“Yeah,” Tia agrees reluctantly, answering his question. “I guess we do have things to talk about. Starting with, why the hell did you send that guy into my turf?”

“William,” Hancock says with a rueful laugh. “Well, brother... I’m fine with answerin’ your questions, but mind if we take this conversation somewhere a little more comfortable? Specifically, out of the rain.”

Tia’s jerking her head to the right, saying, “Sure, just—” when she realizes what he’s said. “Wait.  _ Brother?” _

“Oh, uh… colloquialism. Unless ya got a better name to offer.” Hancock says, with what she assumes he thinks is a rakish grin.

Tia is staring at him, blinking— _ the fuck do you say to something like that? Brother.  _ Brother. _ He thinks I’m a man! Oh god! _

Her mouth opens and closes several times, in disbelief— _ I know it’s dark, and raining, but surely my voice would have given it away? My long hair? My face, even? _

Finally, she shuts her mouth, grits her teeth, and answers, “Vernell.”

_ Fuck’em.  _ She didn’t expect to feel offended; his perceptions of her shouldn’t matter. He’s a complete bastard, after all, and more than likely a murderer. What does it matter if she gives him her last name instead of her first? If he thinks that she's a man, it shouldn't matter to her if she lets him think that indefinitely. Not like she intends to stick around him long enough for him to realize his mistake.

It’s strange. Back home, as she likes to think of the world two hundred and ten years ago, murder was a sort of abstract concept. It happened, sure, but in the newspapers and in movies. She’s never actually met someone who was a killer. And she’s killed people before, but only ever from a great distance. Seen their bodies fall through the scope of her gun. She’s not seen a person in the apocalypse up close, not since Nate died.

So it shouldn’t matter, right? No matter what she’s done, he’s obviously worse than her. She’s never sent someone to their death. She’s always given clear warning. Given people ample time to run away from her. Set up fences and signs and warnings. She’s not like him. It shouldn’t matter, even though he’s her soul mate, even though they’re supposed to be happy together.

It shouldn’t matter, but it does. She can’t help the raw and unfamiliar feeling of hurt rising up inside her chest, the plain and simple sadness that she’s not feminine at all, and her mind runs away with the idea. She wonders if she’s too broad. If her shoulders are too wide. If her hips are too small… could that be it?

She wonders if she’s ugly—

_ Stop it. _

Hancock is limping along behind her, and Tia slows her pace, pushing those thoughts away.  _ Focus on the here and now, Tia.  _  “Oh, uh… Did you twist your ankle?”

“Broke my leg, more like,” Hancock pants, then muses, “Ya know, they say  _ break a leg  _ like it’s supposed to be a good thing.”

Tia  _ really  _ doesn’t want to risk completing the soul bond, but she says, grudgingly, “Do you need any help?”

“Might need some, yeah,” he puffs, and without asking any further, he leans in against her and wraps his arm around her waist. “Ah, that helps. Thanks, brother.”

Tia winces, and wonders if he can feel the swell of her breast against his face, through the layers of kevlar and leather. If he does, he doesn’t say anything. “Just… don’t touch my bare skin.”

She isn’t sure what it is, but there’s a short silence and then a subdued noise against her side, as if Hancock is clearing his throat, quietly. A sideways glance shows his battered face with a strange expression that she can’t place, and something urges her to verify, “I don’t want to complete the soul bond.”

“Oh,” Hancock says, face clearing, and then shifts to a wry smile. “Right.”

Fuck, he’s even smaller like this. Tucked up against her side, leaning into her, she can feel the fragility of his shoulders, the thin line of his skinny arm under her (gloved) hand. Each one of his breaths makes his shoulders push out. It makes Tia wonder just how he's managed to survive the wastes for so long, and then remembers the cruel efficiency with which he ordered a man to die.

Tia’s mind is buzzing with questions; having not spoken with anyone but Codsworth for the past three months, and only Nate in the few days before that, right after leaving the vault; she’s especially curious about what sort of world she’s living in. It’s one thing to see it from a distance, the travelers fleeing from raiders and wild dogs; one thing to see it up close, examining the corpses of her victims. Yet another to see a living person and ask him about it. Dead bodies don’t tell her anything about the state of the rest of the world, if the war with China is over, if every other place in the United States is as fucked up as Boston and its surrounding areas. For all she knows, it’s just this one bit of the States that’s been screwed up.

She wants to ask about the mutated animals, about the gangs, about the huge green men in the distance that Codsworth had called Super Mutants, about the mysterious dead men walking, the  _ ghouls,  _ that Codsworth has mentioned once or twice but never described.

She’s blind and lost in this new world, secure only in her three blocks of real estate, rife with traps and bombs and pits. A little island of safety, where she hides from the rest of the world.

Another minute and they're back at her turf, around by the rear exit. It's chained shut, and Tia fiddles with it for awhile, opening the carabineer clip that holds it shut and unwinding the chains. An enormous yellow  _ KEEP OUT  _ sign adorns the gates, and she casts Hancock a suspicious glance before pulling it open.

“Step back a little,” she orders, as she swings it open.

Hancock only smirks, though he obeys. “Why? Do I make you uncomfortable?”

_ Yes.  _ But probably not for the reason that he thinks, and Tia's not about to feed his ego. The scar on her torso aches as she winces and sidesteps.

“Do you want help walking, or should I just let you step on a landmine?” she asks.

“Ah, the former, if you don't mind,” Hancock replies with a small laugh that does interesting things to her heartbeat. “Might not like having a broken leg, but I'd rather have that than  _ no  _ legs.”

Tia sighs, and looks at her maze with no small amount of dismay. Most of her traps have to be carefully avoided—squeezed past, stepped over, crawled under. Navigation will be terrible while supporting another person.

She wishes that he weren’t her soul mate. She wishes that he didn’t have such a sexy voice. Otherwise, she’d be sorely tempted to let him step on a landmine anyway.

Still is, kinda.

“John Hancock,” he says suddenly, and Tia looks at him. “My name. I never did introduce myself, did I? Hope you’ll forgive my bad manners, given the situation.”

“I’d overheard,” Tia says eventually. “You’re a mayor.”

“Goodneighbor,” Hancock says without missing a beat. “Nice little place. Most people are friendly enough, as long as you don’t look at them for too long. You ever been there?”

A pause.

“Probably not, I guess.”

“I don’t get out much.”

Hancock laughs at her dry tone, something that surprises her. Although, well, he’s acted fairly casual, so maybe Tia shouldn’t be startled. After all, he was being cheerful and good-humored with his friends—cohorts?—at the very same moment that William was stumbling over her traps.

“Gotta ask, though,” he says, his tone conversational, as they skirt around a barbed wire blockade. “Why hole yourself up in here? Not to mention that you planted yourself right on my front doorstep. S’like you’re scared of something. Big lug like you shouldn’t be afraid’a anything, but you’ve got more traps than a molerat’s got tunnels.”

His tone is light and teasing, but Tia can sense something harsher hiding underneath.  _ I guess he really is angry about me taking the couple of blocks outside Goodneighbor… and I’m not even that close. _

Tia might have had a good answer, but she hasn’t spoken to another person in so long that she’s not sure what to say. With Codsworth, there’s no need to sound tough or elegant or witty. But with this asshole? She doesn’t want to seem dumb or weak. It might be dangerous, to let her guard down any more than she already has. So she keeps her mouth shut.

“Strong and silent type… got it.”

Hancock, she guesses, is  _ not.  _ Especially with him squirming around and chattering beneath her arm, like a little kid with ADHD.

She glances down at him, thinking. Seeing him up close is... different. She'd noticed, looking down at him in the rain from her perch on the rooftop, that he was disfigured. He's missing a nose, which is more than a little startling, and his entire face, neck, and chest are covered in what looks like chemical burns. A lot of ego for a man who looks like human jerky.

But more than the slight disgust at his appearance, Tia feels sympathy. Getting burns like that... it must have been agonizing. She wants to ask him about it, sort of, but not enough to make more conversation than she needs to. Tia's not sure if it's that they're soul mates, or just human kindness, but she wants to keep him safe. Try to keep him from adding any more scars and burns to his small body, ridged and bumpy like a topographical map.

“Hey, brother,” he says after awhile, “got a light? Seem to have dropped mine during our scuffle.”

“No.”

“Gotcha.” There’s a short silence; Tia is thinking that he might finally be running out of words; and then he says, “Mind if I take a hit, then?”

“Go ahead.”

He reaches into his pocket and withdraws one of those little red inhalers that Tia’s seen on corpses. His dark eyes gleam as he glances at her, and then his lips close over its stem. He presses down, takes a breath. Acrid-smelling smoke drifts from his mouth as he exhales.

There's something... oddly erotic about the gesture, but she doesn't know what it might be or why.

Tia wrinkles her nose, annoyed at herself, but doesn’t object to the horrible smell. “What is that?”

“Jet, man, come on. You’ve never had Jet?”

Her voice deepens in disgust. “Sampling random drugs I loot off raiders doesn’t seem all that safe to me, so, no.”

“Awh, shit, you’re missing out. Nobody dies of bad Jet anymore, I killed the chemist who was lacin’ em with chlorine last year. And, all of his equipment was anonymously donated to my offices the following day, so I took it upon myself to make most of the Jet in the area.” Hancock grins, and Tia's heart feels lighter. “Safe as can be.”

“Knowing that you make it yourself is… supposed to be a  _ comfort  _ to me?” Tia can’t help but ask, suppressing a smile in return. For a brief moment, she forgets herself, and her fingers tighten around Hancock's sleeve instinctively. Holding him closer.

“We’re gonna get along just fine, brother.”

His words are a wake-up call.  _ No,  _ they  _ aren’t  _ going to get along. Because Hancock is a fucking psychopath murderer, a tyrant, and also apparently some kind of drug dealer, which Tia should have picked up on earlier, provided that he’d been talking about his chems nearly killing one of his friends before she’d even met him.

Tia supposes that it’s a testament to his charisma that he was able to make her forget this, even for just a few moments.

She can't allow herself to forget it again.


	5. Hancock v2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hancock learns some things about Vernell.

The man halts at his words, and Hancock thinks that they’ve reached yet another trap that the pair of them have to scrape past, when he pulls away and stares down at him. Pressed so close together, Hancock has to lift his chin to meet his soul mate’s eyes. And they aren’t very friendly-lookin’ anymore.

_ Shit. _

“Let’s get one thing straight,” Vernell says grimly. “I’m not your  _ brother,  _ and I’m sure as hell not your friend. We’re not going to get along. In fact, you can forget that you’ve ever said that, alright?”

“Jesus,” Hancock says, more than a little surprised. “Did I hit a nerve?”

Unsurprisingly, Vernell doesn’t answer, only turns and keeps walking. Hancock watches him for a few brief seconds, then mutters a curse.  _ He’s leaving me behind?  _ “Shit, hey, come on, man. I have a broken leg, remember?”

“I remember,” Vernell rumbles, not stopping.

_ Fuck.  _ Hancock sucks in another lungful of Jet and hobbles after him. “I hope you like your soul mate extra crispy, because if you don’t help me along, I’m more than likely gonna get this sexy slice of ghoul ass blown up.”

“I have no intention of completing the soul bond,” Vernell replies, and then pauses. “You’re a ghoul?”

“Please. You ain’t blind,” Hancock gripes. “Unless that’s supposed to be some sort of shitty, un-subtle compliment?”

“I’ve never seen a ghoul before,” Vernell says, and finally— _ finally _ —stops to turn around and look at him. Studies him with those dark and unmerciful eyes, and Hancock has to make a little more effort to keep walking towards him. He’s never come under such careful examination before, and it’s making him a little nervous, especially since it’s his fucking soul mate.

What does Vernell think of him? He hasn’t seemed happy about anything, and Hancock was thinking that most of it was that he was pissed that his soul mate was a ghoul, but if he’s never seen one before…  _ could be that he’s from one of those racist settlements,  _ he muses. One of the ones that keeps their doors sealed shut tighter than a Brotherhood paladin’s ass. Refusing to let anyone inside. It wouldn’t be out of the question for Vernell to have never seen a ghoul, and it would help explain how he’s so goddamn tall, and his other bizarre habits.

Doesn’t mean that he’ll be any more disposed to treating Hancock nicely, but at least he knows a little bit more about his soul mate.

“You like it?” Hancock asks, placing his hand over his heart. “I think it gives me a sort of sexy, king of the zombies kinda look. Big hit with the ladies.”

Vernell’s face twitches.

_ I guess that wasn’t as funny as I thought. Hm.  _ “Anyway, it has its benefits. The sexy package bein’ foremost, of course, but the accelerated healing’s a good second. And what’s not to love about immortality?”

Vernell tilts his head, and his ponytail slides over his neck. “Should an immortal man really be so scared about a couple tiny little landmines?”

“Hey, doesn’t mean I can’t die,” Hancock protests, disappointed that he’s walking away from him again. “Immortality may have been a  _ bit  _ of an exaggeration…”

“We’re here,” Vernell says, and Hancock nearly falls against his back.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Jet doesn’t do much for pain, huh? You got stims up in yer little apartment, brother?”

“Yeah,” Vernell says, and studies him again. “How do you think you can handle stairs?”

“Probably not a—”

“Don’t touch my bare skin,” Vernell warns him again, and scoops him up.

“Shit!” Hancock yelps, and barely avoids brushing his face with his hand. He withdraws it damn quick. He doesn’t want to see how pissed Vernell will get if he accidentally completes it for him. Let alone the fact that the soul bond’ll connect them deeper than anything else. With how much Vernell seems to dislike him, it’d make for a damn lonely existence. Longin’ for a man he’ll probably never see again, wantin’ him next to him in his double bed up in the State House—Hancock’s heard the stories about how soul mates crave each other, how their touch is better than anything else. Ain’t a surprise that most split couples end up going a bit crazy. Staying away from your bonded mate isn’t healthy, and Hancock doesn’t wanna know how weak that’ll make him, if he’s always reaching for someone who isn’t there.

He wonders if it’ll form anyway, just ‘cause Vernell’s holding him so close. There’s something delectably wonderful about being cradled in his arms. He can feel the warmth emanating from his skin through Vernell’s leather armor, against the bare strip of skin just above his hip, where his shirt has slipped up on his stomach.

“You’re heavier than I thought,” Vernell admits as they ascend the stairs.

“Happens to ghouls,” Hancock says quietly. “‘M stronger than I look, too. Something about muscle mass condensing. Lots of science bullshit. Never looked into the details.”

Vernell’s apartment is about as sparse as Hancock expected. A couple of guns in the corner, a bookshelf with a few paperbacks—romance novels. A rack that holds a veritable pantry of tinned foods and bottled water. There’s a stack of three clean mattresses, a bit of a rarity in the wasteland, with soft pink sheets and a colorfully-embroidered quilt folded up at the foot.

_ Huh,  _ Hancock thinks.  _ Little bit feminine.  _ Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course. People have made jabs about his heeled boots for the same reason, callin’ him a fag and a queer. Stupid, because there’s nothing wrong with wanting to look taller, and it makes his legs look fan-fucking-tastic.

And by now, Hancock has stabbed enough people that they’re willing to forgive his little idiosyncrasies.

Vernell deposits him onto the bed, and in the low lighting, Hancock has a flash of memory, a burst of intuition. Something’s niggling at the back of his head, like a yao guai chewin’ on a bone…

His soul mate is careful to step away after putting him down, and adjusts his leather gloves. He’s not looking at Hancock.

_ Is… is he nervous?  _ Ridiculous. Even with a ghoul’s strength, Hancock is flat on his back with a broken leg. He’s a lot more pathetic than he’d prefer—completely at Vernell’s mercy, and the guy is refusing to look at him. Could it… it couldn’t be because he’s in his bed? Would that really be enough to fluster him?

“Stim?” Hancock asks hopefully.

“I don’t think so,” Vernell says, looking up at last. “Sure, I have some. But I’m not sure if I’m ready to let you loose on the world again. You have some things to answer to, and your punishment will be more or… less severe, depending on if William or my friend are still alive.”

“My punishment,” Hancock repeats in disbelief.  _ Fuckin’ hell… when was the last time someone tried to take me to task? The fuck is he going to do, spank me? _

_ That  _ leads to a very interestin’ mental image that Hancock decides to peruse later.

“Vigilante justice always sounded reasonable to me,” Vernell says, and frowns. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Didn’t realize I was looking at you in any particular way, brother. Just seems like for all our differences, we’ve got more in common than not.”

Hancock immediately realizes that this was the wrong thing to say. Vernell’s dark eyes narrow, and his posture stiffens.

This time, though, he doesn’t say anything; looking at the expression on his face, Hancock expects him to explode, to rage at him, maybe just restrain himself and cut him down with a barbed comment or two. But he doesn’t. His lips thin, and he looks away.

“Hancock,” he says, “I’m going to go look for my friend, and see if yours is still alive. Don’t move from there, alright? I haven’t disarmed any of the traps, and there are quite a few just outside the building.”

“Really, man? You’re leaving me here with a broken leg?”

Vernell doesn’t reply, only heads out, shaking his head.

_ Shit. _

And then there’s silence, nothing but the rain pattering overhead. Hancock looks up, sees bubbled ridges of metal soldered together, forming a stable roof where pieces had rotted away. The Goodneighbor Gunman, as the people of his town have taken to calling him, has been here for around three months, maybe a little less.  _ Looks like he’s really built a home for himself here. _

He wonders where Vernell came from. He’d been thinking a little town on lock-down, some place with no ghouls or mutants, but he has to admit, Vernell is a lot harsher than most of the soft Vaulties he’s met.  _ Maybe he’s from some sort of paramilitary organization?  _ That’d explain a lot. But it wouldn’t explain why he’d never seen a ghoul, though, right? Most military assholes, like the Brotherhood of Steel, parade around and kill shit, fuck life up for everyone else around them. Doesn’t really fit.

_ Nothing fits.  _ Vernell’s an enigma, from the obvious part, his towering height, to the hidden, the carefully-shelved paperback romances. A solitary giant with a love of reading and soft sheets.

He has to admit, there’s a lot to like about Vernell, but…  _ he killed Finn and Efraim.  _ With a fucking  _ rocket launcher.  _ No warnings or anything, which is supposedly not normal for the people who’ve ventured into his territory and came out alive. He’s sent in scouts to try to communicate with Vernell before, of course, but no one’s been able to even get a look at the guy, let alone talk to him. And leavin’ a letter just felt kinda tacky, so Hancock just left it at that, until he realized that this guy wasn’t going away anytime soon.

Having a crazed lone wolf outside of Goodneighbor wasn’t exactly good for the chem business, so about a month and a half ago, Hancock decided that he had to go. He sent in a few more guys to kill Vernell, but no one ever came back. He’d been pissed off then, but now? He’s glad that they didn’t succeed, but still. Vernell’s been a pain in the ass for the past three months, and he’s cost Hancock more than just two men. And Efraim was a good one. He wasn’t just some merc, he was a member of the Watch, a friend. Leaves Hancock with more than a few conflicted feelings.

Hancock waits for a few minutes, then hefts himself out of the temptingly-comfortable bed, resting his weight on his good leg. Soul mate or not, he doesn’t trust Vernell to stay good on his word that Hancock’s going to stay unharmed. In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised if Vernell’s going to run, leaving Hancock to rot in the three-block minefield of traps.

“Hm. If I were a stimpak, where would I be…” he mutters. There’s a corner with a curtain, so Hancock limps over to check that out. Two pails, one filled with water, and the other empty. Probably his makeshift bathroom? Most places’ plumbing stopped working a few weeks after the bombs dropped, and it can be tricky to get ‘em up and working again. Other than a few towels— _ pink again? _ —there’s nothing else.

Hancock ignores the frustration rising in his chest, and takes another hit of Jet.  _ Least this shit’s taking an edge off the pain.  _ It’s one thing to be fighting with injuries, but to just be sitting on his ass with them? It’s pointless and a lot more painful than Hancock would like. He thinks that he must have fucked up his leg pretty good with his fall; he’s broken his limbs before and they usually don’t hurt this badly.

Irritated, he pulls the curtain back shut, right before he notices a small bin in the corner.  _ Could that be…? _

Instead, he discovers a massive pile of white strips of cloth, all neatly rolled; he digs through them in confusion, even unwraps one of them, but they’re not hiding anything, they’re just strips of clean cloth. Bandages?  _ Dammit, was he lying about having stims?  _ If he needs this many bandages for just one person…

Exasperated, Hancock moves on to check the rest of the room. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. He even flips through some of the romance novels to see if one of them is hiding chems or keys or anything, but all of them are intact, and in rather good shape. He’s slightly alarmed at the selection; there’s a disturbing number of alien abduction romances, with some shifter romances, and the rest are by a popular smut author named Jayce Carter. Some lady down in the Capitol Wasteland who puts out a massive amount of novels, usually about five per year. Famous enough that he’s even caught Fahrenheit reading one (she blushed, to Hancock’s amazement, but slammed the book shut and threw a knife at him when he laughed, which was not at all surprising). Personally, he thinks that it’s a group of writers, because no one can put out that many books in a year, even if it’s their day job. It’s not surprising that Vernell’s come across them, but it  _ is  _ surprising that he’s held onto them. They tend to be geared towards females. Because, well, fuck, what man wants to read about the hairy chest of a stern Brotherhood knight, or—

Well. If Vernell’s his soul mate, he must be inclined towards his own gender, at least a little bit. Surely fate couldn't be so cruel as to assign him a man who isn't even slightly interested in other men?

It's while he's limping back to the bed in defeat that he notices a faint green glow emanating from beneath a crate in the corner.  _ Well, hello there,  _ Hancock smirks, pushing aside the crate to uncover a floor safe. His smile fades when he realizes that it's passcode only, without a physical keyhole.  _ Dammit _ —he’s never been great at hacking. If the stims are anywhere in the room, he'd bet his hat that they're in the safe.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, and shifts his hat to scratch at his withered scalp. His eyes fall on the crate that had been covering the safe, and he shrugs to himself. He’s already been through all the rest of Vernell’s things, what’s a little more investigating going to hurt?

He’s quickly bored; the crate seems to be just excess armor. Poorly-stitched leather pieces, rusty metal pieces… 

A flash of color catches his eye, and he shifts aside the gear to the other half of the crate, chasing the flash of red. Hancock digs his hands into the material, and his fingers jerk in surprise at the change: cool musty leather to silk, lace, soft ribbons.

_ What the hell…? _

It’s at that moment that Hancock realizes he has his hands full of nothing but women’s underwear.

 


	6. Tia v3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More of Tia's past is exposed; feelings have time to cool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote this chapter 3 or 4 times. I hated its guts. It is less awful now.  
> *throws angrily*  
> Hopefully you guys enjoy it even so!

Tia leaves her apartment, seething. How  _ dare  _ he! Her, similar to him? Yeah, sure. Maybe if she actually  _ were  _ a man!  _ How fucking ugly must I be,  _ she grumbles as she walks across the rooftops,  _ that he saw me in good lighting and still thought I was a man? _

She knows she isn’t actually ugly; she’s always been thought of as a little plain, if not pleasant-looking; a bit too tall for most men, but attractive enough that she’d had no shortage of fans during her college volleyball matches. Most of them men, eager to get a glimpse of highly-athletic young women in nothing more than short skirts and fitted crop tops.

_ I don’t need this right now.  _ Although, she doesn’t think she’d ever have the time or patience to want to deal with Hancock. Grimly, she wonders if it wouldn’t be better if she’d never had his words on her arm at all.

Instantly, Tia feels guilt flood through her body.  _ That’s probably not very fair. No matter who Hancock is or what he’s like…  _ she doesn’t want to bond with him, but… 

_ Ugh.  _ Why does this have to be so messy and complicated? It would be so much easier if Hancock were as unlikeable as his actions, but he has a sort of natural charm, as often as Tia tries to deny it. He’s interesting, even though he’s shorter than every single woman on Tia’s old volleyball team. He’s been respectful, too.

Tia wonders if that’ll change once he realizes she’s a woman.

It doesn’t take long to scope out her turf, looking for Codsworth and William, especially when she hears the telltale sound of his propulsion engines running. He’s close below; Tia drops onto the lid of a rusting dumpster and slides off. “Codsworth?”

“Here, mum,” the robot calls, and Tia breathes a sigh of relief.

“Oh, Cods, I’m so glad that you’re—”

_ Alive,  _ she was about to say, but then again, he was never alive, not really, and neither is William.

The man’s corpse is in hundreds of pieces, splattered all over the street, the brick walls of the neighboring houses. It looks like a grisly accident at a ketchup factory. Coagulated pools of red have drained towards the lowest divots of the street. And there’s a human ear stuck to the gutterspout on her right.

“Your traps prove to be quite deadly time and time again,” Codsworth says tremulously. “I am so sorry, mum. I tried to disarm them in time, but he was shooting at me quite insistently, and I—”

“It’s alright,” Tia says, forcing herself to look away from the carnage, and instead looks directly at Codsworth’s sensors. “I’m just glad you’re okay. You haven’t been shot, have you?”

“Oh, it’s nothing to concern yourself with, mum,” Codsworth says, letting out a disturbingly cheerful laugh. “Robco makes sure that all Mr. Handy butlers are equipped with a sturdy exterior, perfect for even the most rugged type of lifestyle!”

“Right,” Tia says. She glances around again, somewhat amazed by the destruction that her plasma mine had caused.  _ Those things certainly pack a punch.  _ “Well. We do have company this evening. Are you planning on… disposing… of this guy, or are you going to let the rain do the work?”

“I was planning on a cremation for the poor fellow,” Codsworth says. “Besides, it’s in dreadfully poor taste to leave such a mess behind within our own home.”

“Uhm, yeah.”

“You said that we have a guest?” Codsworth’s ocular sensors widen and refocus on Tia’s face.

“Mm,” Tia grunts. “It’s… actually… the person who left these words on my arm.”

“Oh, your soul mate! Mum, I am ever so proud of you! How wonderful! Even in these dark times, you found him even so. And what is the name of the mister or missus in question?”

Codsworth, she thinks, is being way too cheerful, given the circumstances, and especially with their surroundings. Although maybe it’s fitting to discuss Hancock in a rainy street in the dead of night, with a burst-open corpse at their feet.

“It’s Hancock,” she says shortly.

“Mum… you don’t mean…”

“The one responsible for this mess,” I say. “Yes. Him.”

Codsworth’s secondary sensors glance around helplessly, and then the robot tilts his sawblade appendage tentatively. “At least, he can’t be any worse than the  _ previous  _ sir, can he?”

“I don’t want to talk about Nate,” Tia says. “And I really don’t want to talk about Hancock, either, but. Well. You’ll have to know, he thinks that I’m a man.”

“And… er… did you correct him?” If robots could wince, then Codsworth would be giving her one hell of a wince.

“I was sort of hoping he’d figure it out,” Tia admits.

“And?”

“He, uh, hasn’t, yet.”

“What in the heavens has he been calling you all this time, then?” Codsworth cries.

“Vernell.”

“You’ve only given him your surname?” Codsworth’s arms wave, choppy and hectic in his distress. “Well, he would realize if you gave him your full name, but… I never! Oh, mum, if only the fellow could have seen you in your prime. He would be so ashamed by his words! Two hundred and ten years ago, you were the most lovely woman in the States. Er, besides Miss Nora, of course.”

Tia blinks, smiles. “Aww. Thanks, Cods.”

“I mean, not that this isn’t still the case!” Codsworth hurries to explain. “You are still lovely. But, er, with the lack of showers and clean water, I fear that your gentleman is missing out upon your full effect. I am astonished that he has not realized, mum, of course, but it would have left no doubt if only he had seen you back then.”

“I get it. You’re alright,” Tia says. “Thanks, though.”

“So… what will you be telling your… I dread to say it… second half?”

Tia’s shoulders slump.

“I don’t know.”

 

* * *

 

_ Pittsburgh, 2076 _

 

When Tia reluctantly decided to go to the Winter Dance at her college, she’d thought that that’s all it would be. Just a dance.

Oh, she had a lovely time getting everything together, once she finally gave in to her friends’ pleading and accepted Frank Letolla’s invitation to the Christmas-themed dance in the college’s ballroom. She’d spent the past three years hearing about how wonderful it was, how beautiful the decorations were, how handsome all the boys looked in their fancy suits. Plus, Kenzie Fenton’s Marine boyfriend had returned from the war a week before, so she was begging all of her friends to come along to the dance so that they could spend time with him and give her a proper opinion on the man she hoped would soon be her fiance.

Tia was a little late to accept the invitation, but once she had, her volleyball teammates took care of almost everything.

“Oh, I’ll do your hair!” Kenzie had told her brightly, not considering the fact that Tia’s hair was thicker and curlier than probably anything Kenzie had ever dealt with in her life. Another girl on the volleyball team offered to do her nails, and a third claimed to be the daughter of a Bollywood make-up artist, so that was that. All Tia needed to do was buy a dress.

It was hard to find anything that she actually liked. She combed through the stores and outlet malls, only to be disappointed. So late in the season, two weeks before Christmas, all the best dresses had already been bought, or were being traded out for early spring clothing. She found a very pretty teal dress with a sweetheart neckline and even found a matching hat, when another girl in the volleyball team’s group chat sent them a picture of her in her new dress… the exact same one that Tia was holding. She looked better in it, too.

Tia put the dress back grudgingly.

Nothing looked good on her. Tia had hated how she looked in black, and that’s what most of the winter-appropriate dresses were: black or red. Black made her look dull, not providing a good contrast against her dusky skin or dark brown hair, and red drew attention to the sort of unattractive reddish flush she had to her cheeks.

_ Oh, come on,  _ she’d growled to herself, trying on yet another dress—she heard something in the bodice tear as she pulled her arms through the too-small holes.  _ It can’t be that hard to find something to wear for a girl with broad shoulders.  _ Something that wasn’t red, black, too short, too thin, or too cheap and slutty; something that was cute and in-fashion and actually fit her frame.

Apparently, that was just too damn much to ask.

Tia was  _ this  _ close to giving up and telling Frank  _ sorry, just can’t make it,  _ when she had a burst of inspiration and drove to the nearest thrift shop. The salesman was, of all things, a Protectron, since the chain had gotten too cheap to hire live workers, so it wasn’t much help with finding their selection of formal dresses, but she found them at long last.

Dingy two-piece suits for overweight women. High school prom dresses from twenty years ago. Bridal gowns.

Tia glanced left, then right. Bit her lip.  _ I mean… if I get the right kind… no one’s gonna know it’s a bridal gown… right? _

The girls loved it. And Tia was pleased, too. She’d managed to find a single unstained gown, fitted for a larger woman, and sleeveless, so that she didn’t have to worry about her shoulders. She’d been a decent student in their mandatory Homemaker’s Studies class all through public education, so she wasn’t intimidated by doing any of the fitting herself; she took in the sides of the dress by a good two sizes, showing off her curvy hourglass shape without pulling the dress too tight.

Plus, the white was a really gorgeous contrast against her dark skin—and it brought out the red in her cheeks without looking bad. A glittery silver sash sealed the deal, and the Indian girl on her team was more than happy to plaster her in silver eyeshadow and a dusting of nearly-imperceptible glitter on her cheekbones.

Now, Tia’s sitting in the front seat of Frank’s car, up on the hill near the college football field, with the stars large and bright overhead, with the snow reflecting the moon, and she’s wondering if she didn’t go to  _ too  _ much effort.

Frank is… maybe getting the wrong idea about the fact that they danced together the whole night.

“God, Tia, you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Out here in the snow… you look like a queen.”

Tia blinks and lets out a small laugh. “Uhm. Yeah, thanks… uh, you… look good too?”

Frank swings his leg over the gear shift and presses in closer. She can barely see his face in the darkness, but she can vividly imagine it when his hand touches her thigh.

“I can make you feel like a queen, too.”

“Frank…”

“I’ll take real good care of you,” he promises, and Tia bites her lip. His hand is still touching her thigh, his thumb smoothing circles against the inner part of her leg without roaming higher or trying to pull up her dress. He could be a lot more forceful, but he’s not. Because, all and all, Frank’s a good guy. She wouldn’t have agreed to go with him if he wasn’t.

“I… we shouldn’t,” she says hesitantly. “Both of us have soul mates, and…”

He’s quiet for a little, but his thumb continues to rub against her thigh. “Does that bother you?”

“I mean… yeah, a bit. I’ve never…”

Frank finally sits back, and leaves his hand resting on her knee. It’s a bit longer before he speaks again. “You know that my parents never married their soul mates?”

This is far from what Tia was expecting to hear, and it catches her off-guard.

“What? Are you serious?”

“Mm. Both met theirs before they met each other, too.” Another silence, and Frank scoots back, giving her more room, and Tia lets out a relieved breath of air. “Neither of them liked the other, and so my parents never sealed the bond with their soul mates. They just… drifted apart… and waited. And then they met each other and got married.”

“So, you’re saying…”

“I’m saying that the whole soul mate thing is complete bullshit. How many unhappy marriages do we have in America? And how many people are married to the person who’s supposed to make them happier than anyone else? It’s nothing but a gigantic lie. You’d don’t need some group of words on your arm to tell you who’s gonna make you happy.”

A pause, and Tia doesn’t say anything. She’d… never thought of it like that. Her own parents were happy, of course, but… it’s true that not everyone is, right? But she’s never heard of anyone having a lasting relationship with someone who wasn’t their soulmate, or didn’t have a soul mark at all. Like her big brother and his wife Nora. Neither one of them have a soul mark, and they’re happy together; they don’t need anything like fate to tell them who they’re supposed to love.

“Listen, Tia, I like you. A lot. So it’s whatever you want to do. I can take you home right now, and we can forget about all this, okay? And we can hang out tomorrow like nothing ever happened. Or, you can sit back and let me make you feel good, no strings attached. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.” He smiles, and she can see his teeth gleaming in the moonlight. “Of course, I’d prefer if you wanna go steady, but. Well. Tell me what you want to do, beautiful.”

Tia bites her lip. She’s never…  _ never  _ been so tempted. Frank is handsome, he’s in most of her classes, and he’s smart and nice and dedicated. She’s wished a few times that he  _ was  _ her soul mate, that it had been his words scrawled across her arm in his simple cursive. Not… not whatever it is on her arm. The angry and crass swear words written on her like a soundless accusation.

And yet…

“Whoever he is,” she says, her eyes pleading with Frank to understand, “he’s my soul mate. I can’t decide on anything until I meet him. If I knew who he was, things would be different. I’m sorry.”

Her date leans back with a wry laugh, as if this was what he’d been secretly expecting all along. “Right. Alright, you’ve got a convincing enough argument.” A long pause. “Uhm. You want anything before we go back to the dorms? Hot chocolate, coffee?”

And true to his word, Frank doesn’t bring it up again.

Six months later, Tia and Kenzie and the rest of the volleyball team graduate, and Frank smiles at her as they leave the diploma ceremony.

She doesn’t speak to him again, and in another five months, the world goes up in flames.

 

* * *

 

Looking back on it, Tia sort of wishes that she’d taken Frank up on his offer. He was right. The whole concept of soul mates is bullshit, and she doesn’t even want to  _ think  _ about attempting a happy marriage with Hancock. The whole phrase just sounds wrong.

_ He doesn’t even know I’m a woman.  _ If Hancock were Frank Letolla, she wouldn’t have to worry about if he thought that she was pretty or not, because Frank would have already told her a thousand times.

But Frank is dead now, and…

Tia stops dead upon opening the door to her little room, fully expecting to see Hancock laying in her bed, smoking, or doing drugs, or whatever the hell he does when he’s bored, but catching him kneeling on the floor with his hands full of her lacy panties is  _ not  _ what she expected.

The ghoul mayor looks up, and his face quickly changes to a lascivious grin.

“Vernell, you dog! So this is why you weren’t happy to see me, huh? You got a girl stashed up here? S’that the friend you were talking about getting?”

She gapes.

_ No. _

No.

_ He cannot be this stupid. _

Hancock’s grin fades a little, and he shrugs. “Sorry for snooping. Got a little bored. Still, though—”

“Put those back,” Tia growls, and for a moment she can’t blame him for thinking that she’s a man: that was about the lowest her voice has ever gone. Her face is dark red, and based on how Hancock’s expression is changing, he must think that she’s furious, and not, well, embarrassed out of her goddamn mind.

He drops them. “Come on, man, I didn’t mean anything by it. I ain’t no pervert—well, I am, but I’m not  _ that  _ big of one. You got a lady, I’ll respect that. It’s not like I haven’t entertained a girl now and then.”

This gives her pause. “You… you have?”

Idiotically, the next thing out of her mouth is, “I… uh, I thought you…” Tia gestures between them, as if he’s supposed to pick up a fucking thing from a single hand gesture.

He gets it somehow, though. “Oh, nah. I don’t really have a preference. Equality for the people and all that.” He finishes this particularly outrageous sentence with a saucy wink and a tip of his hat.

“Okay,” Tia says, giving up at last. “Alright. Whatever.”

_ It’s too late to deal with this shit. I can worry about this in the morning.  _ “Just… get away from the goddamn panties and go to sleep, alright?”

“Mm,” Hancock agrees, and then pauses, leaning on his good leg. “Hold up though.”

“What?”

“You don’t need to worry about your girl, okay? I ain’t gonna do nothin’ to her. I’m not all that jealous; God knows I’ve been enough open relationships for it not to bother me.” Hancock’s face is open and earnest, and for some reason, that makes it much worse. “I’ve messed around and had people go behind my back, too. It’s no big deal. I know neither of us was askin’ for this anyway. S’long as we don’t touch, we can keep going on like before, yeah?”

_ Right,  _ Tia thinks sourly.  _ With myself and Codsworth in our turf, and Hancock whoring around in Goodneighbor. I’m sure he’d prefer that anyway. _

“Sure,” she agrees tiredly. She wonders if it wouldn’t just be easier to forget about the whole thing and escape in the night. Obviously, Hancock isn’t quite as horrible as she’d thought at first, or she’d have shot him by now. Unless, he’s putting through a lot of effort to make himself less monstrous, but too much of him speaks of sincerity.

There’s more to his story, and if she’s supposed to judge him properly, she’ll have to stay a little bit longer.


	7. Hancock v3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Awkward fluff mixed with hurt and comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to Katie, Gumiko, and Malachite Wolf for commenting and motivating me. This chapter exists because of y'all.

Vernell’s still staring at him, as if he doesn’t believe a word of what he’s just said. Weary, as if he’s gotten so sick of all of Hancock’s bullshitting that he’s just gonna shoot him in the goddamn face.

Trouble is, Hancock meant every word. Vernell must be taking pains to keep this mystery woman safe from him, because aside from the decor and the underwear, he hasn’t found any sign of her. Hancock figures that there must be some sort of bolthole where Vernell puts the girl when there’s danger. Wouldn’t surprise him in there was an underground bunker somewhere around here, a little hideout that some wealthy pre-War schmuck had set up just before the blast.

But Vernell surprises him, sighing and dropping his eyes. “Go to bed. It’s late.”

“Right,” Hancock says, and he automatically glances at the bed. There’s no way that the both of them could fit without touching each other, and even if they wouldn’t, Hancock is sure that Vernell wouldn’t risk contact in their sleep anyway.

The other man surprises him, though. “You can take the bed.”

“You sure?”

“I’m not the one with a broken leg.”

Well, he isn’t about to argue with that. Though, he’s silently peeved, as he removes his jacket, that Vernell doesn’t just give him a stimpak and get the whole thing over with. He wouldn’t mind taking the floor if he was in better shape; god knows he ends up there most nights anyways.

He’s not sure what to do about his boots. They’re wet and muddy, even with the extra time to dry out of the rain; if he were back in the Statehouse, he’d leave the damn things on and fall asleep. But Vernell’s bed is clean, and he’s not about to be a poor guest.

And yet if he takes them off, he’s gonna have a hell of a time with the swelling.  _ Be more likely to make the break worse, too.  _ And then,  _ damn, I could use a radstorm about now.  _ Because that would fix everything, wouldn’t it? He’d be healed, and in a better position to deal with Vernell and get back to Goodneighbor.  _ Fahrenheit will be coming for me soon,  _ he thinks.  _ Don’t wanna be stuck on my ass with a fucked up leg by the time she gets back here. _

He’s glad that Vernell didn’t kill her, because if he had, it’d make sparing the guy a lot more difficult. Better yet, she didn’t seem too badly hurt the last time he’d seen her. Even so, it’ll be a hell of a feat to keep his bodyguard from beating the living daylights out of his soul mate.

Vernell’s been watching him. “You need help with your boots?”

_ Well, you’re just full of surprises, ain’t ya?  _ Hancock shrugs. “Wouldn’t mind some.”

Vernell is quiet for a little bit, looming over him; and then Hancock’s mouth goes dry as the huge man kneels in between his legs.  _ Shit.  _ He knows— _ he knows _ —that Vernell isn’t thinking what he is—his dark eyes are fixed on his boot and his left hand is cupping his heel, but  _ fuck,  _ he’s close. He can feel Vernell’s breath ghosting over the inside of his thigh, even through the fabric, his body hypersensitive to his soul mate’s actions.

All too soon, though, he’s moving onto the boot with the broken leg, and his quiet appreciation of the dark-haired man kneeling between his thighs turns to agonized irritation.

“Dammit, are you trying to tear my fucking leg off?” he snarls.

Vernell glances up, and Hancock is a little miffed that the larger man isn’t at all cowed by his harsh words; instead, he looks amused. “If I were, do you think it’d still be there?”

Hancock mutters under his breath.  _ Great, so he’s witty now, too? _

He knows that it’s not Vernell’s fault; he was gentle with the leg that wasn’t even broken, and he’s sure that the bruising and swelling isn’t making Vernell’s job easy. But his soul mate tugs harder, gritting his teeth, and Hancock lets out a howl of pain—the boot is off and in his hand within less than five seconds.

“See? Not so difficult,” Vernell says, and Hancock glares, uncertain if he’s being sarcastic or not.

“Fuck you too.”

Vernell takes a pillow from the bed; Hancock tosses the blanket down after him. Seeing Vernell open his mouth, he adds, “Don’t worry about it, brother, I’m used to sleepin’ under my coat. Don’t sweat it.”

The huge man looks at the pink sheets in his lap and the comforter at his feet; looking at it harder, Hancock says, “Wait a minute. Kittens?”

He’d noticed the embroidery on it, but he’s flummoxed by the fact that now he’s actually paying attention, the colorful patterns have turned out to be happy little cats and kittens, some with closed eyes, others with big happy smiles. They’re in various shades of pink and purple, interspersed with black cursive  _ meows  _ all over it. It’s a little girl’s dream, and looks especially incongruous beside Vernell’s bulk.

Vernell touches the stitching, and mutters, “I like kittens.”

Hancock laughs. “Fuck, your girl must have you whipped if you put up with that in your room. No offense though.”

“Whatever.”

Hancock thinks it’s kinda cute, the way that the big man’s ears turn red, and Vernell growls something else under his breath before walking towards the opposite end of the room to throw down his pillow and blanket.

Hancock lets his attention drift to his broken leg, and mutters a curse as he eases himself down into the bed. Rifles around in his coat pocket after giving Vernell a sideways glance; his brutish other half is laying down in full armor, his back towards Hancock. It shouldn’t matter what Vernell thinks of him, he decides, as he takes another hit of Jet. He’s in pain, it’s Vernell’s fault that his leg is broken; and yet he doesn’t wanna have the other guy thinking that he’s just some fucking junkie.

Which, he is, of course, but still. He wants Vernell to think the best of him, despite everything.

Vernell says nothing, and the pain eases a little more. He sucks down the last bit of the canister, and then breathes in a second one. Just enough to get him a  _ little  _ high, but not enough to make him useless in a fight, or unaware if Vernell thinks about maybe offing him in the middle of the night.

“You’re gonna give yourself asthma,” Vernell grumbles.  _ Guess he was listening after all. _

“My lungs are fine. Haven’t quit on me yet.” He sets his hat over his eyes, blocking out most of the ambient light, but giving him just enough room to see Vernell’s bedspread and a sliver of the door. Vernell is shifting around, and eventually opts for wrapping the blanket around himself like the world’s largest burrito.

Hancock can't help himself.

“Feel cozy yet?” he asks.

“What—I thought you were asleep by now.”

“Bed’s big enough for the two of us, if you change your mind. You’re fully-clothed, so there ain’t much risk.”

“More than I’d like,” Vernell mutters, and damn, that stings no matter how often he says it. Hancock doesn’t consider himself a prideful person, so it’s not self-righteous arrogance rearing its ugly head when Vernell pushes him away—it’s hurt, plain ‘n simple, that sticks him right in the guts. Like he’s swallowed Abraxo, scouring him out from the insides. It’s his innermost thoughts given voice, memories of his childhood, things he’s heard from others and sometimes even things that he’s said to himself:

_ filthy brat _

_ stupid junkie _

_ shitstain mayor of a shithole town _

and the one thing he said before taking down Vic, as he put on John Hancock’s clothes:  _ you fuck everything else up, but don’t ruin this. _

Hancock wouldn’t say that he has low self-esteem, but he’s been fighting it his whole life. For his soulmate to say it so succinctly, this direct rejection of everything that he is—he’s been pleasant to Vernell all night, once they stopped tryin’ to kill one another. It ain’t fair, and while normally he doesn’t bitch about stuff like this, he’s got a broken leg and he’s been shot at, so maybe he deserves some fuckin’ slack, alright?

“Look, man, just level with me,” he says, tipping his hat up another inch to see Vernell better. “I’ve been civil this whole night. Why are you so pissed about us being soulmates?”

He doesn’t think that Vernell’s gonna answer, at first, he’s quiet for so long. He wiggles a few times, the discomfort clear on his face; the rain continues outside but there’s enough starlight for Hancock to glimpse Vernell’s heavy brow, furrowed.

“It’s nothing personal,” he starts, and Hancock snorts. “Honestly. I… if you think it’s because of how you look, it’s not. I trusted the wrong person, is all. And I paid for it.”

_ Someone got the drop on Vernell?  _ Hancock is surprised that anyone would try to betray him; he wonders if his soulmate has a softer side. He decides that he must, after having seen the inside of his room. He’s pussy-whipped, the room clearly decorated with a woman’s touch. 

He imagines, now, that Vernell must be a big teddy bear. A really, really,  _ really  _ big teddy bear, once he lets them in. Who might Vernell keep in his confidence? His girl, for sure. Is there anyone else? Maybe the man known as the Goodneighbor Gunman doesn’t need anyone else.

And then Hancock thinks about the fact that someone hurt Vernell badly enough to make him shy away from his own soulmate, the one person he's supposed to trust unconditionally, and he grits his teeth so hard his jaw aches.

Vernell speaks again, after a short silence. “After that, I decided it was best to keep to myself. The only people I trust are the ones who have proven themselves.”

The room is filled with the sounds of the rain falling; it’s impossibly loud, each individual drop like the blast of a shotgun. Each second stretching with relentless thunder. Beneath that, just perceptible, is the sound of two men breathing.

“I don’t trust you,” Vernell finishes at last, just when Hancock thinks he’s gone to sleep. “You haven’t proven yourself, and your little display outside my turf didn’t help. But… like I said. It’s not about you. Had anyone else come through, if anyone else were my soulmate, it wouldn’t change a thing.”

He isn’t sure what to say to this, and he supposes it doesn’t matter at this point.

He’s not sure when he falls asleep, but it happens; slowly, amidst the rain, the occasional lightning strike lighting the room, and his soulmate’s quiet breathing like a lullaby.

 

He’s never slept so well.

 

* * *

 

He thinks he’s still in the rainstorm when a burst of electricity runs up his leg and stabs him in the fucking heart. He gasps, and then groans, clutching for his knife, and his terror only increases when he doesn’t find it.

The bed is too soft.

He’s not in Goodneighbor, he’s not under attack. Everything is quiet, and slowly, his heartbeat calms down.

Hancock squints against the morning light, bleary, uncertain of where he is. Not that that’s anything new; he’s woken up to an unfamiliar ceiling more times than he can count.

This one, though…

His head twists with sudden awareness, and catches Vernell sitting a few feet away, watching him.

“You okay?” he asks mildly.

“Ah,” Hancock grunts. He hefts himself up gingerly, and looks at his leg with a wince. It’s badly broken just above the ankle, and after a full night of rest, it’s swollen, angry red and obscenely painful. “I think it’s infected.”

Vernell hums.

He allows himself a glance, but he can’t tell what the other man might be thinking. “You make up your mind yet? What you’re gonna do with me? Ain’t got much time, with this leg. Take too long and I might lose it.”

Hancock doesn’t anticipate sticking around that long, but it’d be nice if Vernell lets him go without a fight; better if he helps him through all his traps yet, too.

“I gave it some thought,” Vernell says neutrally. Hancock’s eyes narrow, but his soulmate is shuffling closer, hands him a stimpack. “You had other guys with you. Friends. If they made it back to your town, then they’ll take over eventually. I’d rather have you in charge than more of your... ilk.”

“Ain’t that a surprise,” he drawls, turning over the stimpack and checking for tampering.  _ Looks safe. Guess he’s genuine.  _ “Got anymore of those? This’ll help, but ghouls need a few extra to fix wounds. Got a faster metabolism.”

“How many?”

“At least four.”

Vernell makes a small noise but nothing else. He’s already rummaging through his pockets, opens up a hard case in his utility belt, and—

“You, uh, planning for a rough night?” Hancock asks, eyeing up the eight or so stims in Vernell’s gloved hand. Of course, he doesn’t reply; just puts the rest back and drops the three requested on the bed.

Hancock pulls the leg of his trousers back.  _ Yeah, that’s ugly alright.  _ His pitted skin is stretched and shiny. It’s disgusting to look at, and not just because it’s his own leg lookin’ all mangled.  _ A fuckin’ horror. _

He steals a glance at Vernell.  _ But maybe I can push my luck. _

“Hey, brother, you mind doing the honors?”

He offers the stim that Vernell had first given him.

Those dark, impassive eyes blink once, and then he sighs, scratching the back of his head without removing his gloves.

“Alright.”

_ Shit, really?  _ He hadn’t expected Vernell to accept.

His soulmate moves cautiously, as if he thinks Hancock is gonna reach out and touch him, but he doesn’t need to be worried. Hancock isn’t about to force anything that Vernell isn’t asking for. The mattresses creak threateningly as Vernell sits, and let out a second, softer protest when he shifts. Vernell is looking more and more uncomfortable by the moment, but with evident trepidation glances down at Hancock’s leg, and winces.

“How do you want me to do this?”

“Put in one to take down the swelling. While that’s working, I’ll try and get my bones back into a more, uh, normal alignment.”

Ideally he’d have Vernell hold him in place while  _ he  _ injects the stimpacks, but he doesn’t think that the other man would be all that interested in touching him for that long, even with gloves.

Vernell hesitates again, and then he meets Hancock’s eyes. “Med-X?”

Hancock has to admit, he’s surprised. “Awful lot of care for an injury that’s gonna get healed in the next few minutes.”

“It’ll… hurt, though. If you don’t have it.”

“I have Jet,” Hancock dismisses.  _ A half-canister left. Not that it’ll do much. _

“Med-X will work better,” he argues, and  _ hell,  _ is he actually trying to care for him? Arguments could be made about every other fucking thing that Vernell has done, but there’s no explanation for this: other than that Vernell just doesn’t want to see him hurt.

_ Maybe he’s coming around.  _ Hancock nods, and while Vernell busies himself with preparing the Med-X, he watches the other man’s face.

“You look… different, in daylight,” he says. Vernell looks up at him sharply.

“What do you mean by that?”

Hancock isn’t sure himself. The light is softer on his soulmate’s face than darkness, his cheekbones still sharp, his jawline still bold and inherently masculine, but his overall complexion no longer stony or threatening. Ambient warmth suffuses his dark skin, making him look sun-kissed, no longer a shadow looming in the night.

“Dunno,” he says, shrugging. “Looks nice, though.”

Vernell grunts.  _ Guess he’s not impressed.  _ Hancock continues to study him though, and he sees what the night must have hid; a faint blush creeps over the other man’s cheeks.

Fuck.  _ Fuck. _

_ He doesn’t hate me, not completely, he’s shy!  _ The realization strikes him almost as hard as the burst of pain as Vernell grips his swollen calf and injects the Med-X. He howls with pain and then falls back, gasping, as Vernell injects a second, and then a third, and everything fades back in and out as the pain slips away.

“Two would’a been fine, brother,” he rasps. “You tryna take advantage of me or somethin’?”

“I thought you metabolized things faster?” Vernell tilts his head.

Hancock snorts inelegantly. “Think you’re dosing me for a man your size.”

Vernell glances at the fourth Med-X that he was on the verge of using, then looks between them as if just now realizing the difference of height and weight. He puts the Med-X away, closing the box with a snap.

“Right.”

There’s a long pause as Hancock continues to fade; his muscles feel sluggish and weighted, his head deliciously fuzzy. Usually two syringes is enough to get him feelin’ good, but three gets him pretty high. Four or five is where he goes to lose his head completely.

At three, he’s aware of his surroundings; he’s capable of enjoying the morning, exulting in the feel of Vernell’s gloved hands against his flesh, the pinpricks of pain remaining from his broken leg just enough to keep him attentive and focused; but mostly he’s adrift in waves of lax pleasure.

“Up,” Vernell says, and he feels a supportive hand at his back. “Come on. You need to be ready to set your leg.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He sits up with some difficulty; maybe he leans against Vernell’s arm a little harder than necessary, but that ain’t a crime, is it? Feels good to have someone there with him. He’s always preferred company when high, whether male or female, sexual or platonic. No sense in gettin’ high alone, unless he’s feeling particularly miserable.

It quickly becomes obvious that Vernell has absolutely no experience in making any kind of injection. The Med-X he didn’t really notice, awash in pain, but even high he frowns at the artless push of the needle.

“Ever used one o’those, brother?” he asks dryly.

Vernell grimaces. “Once or twice.”

Hancock presses down, palpating his leg and slotting the bone together in roughly the right place. “Ready for the next one.”

He can already feel the adrenaline racing next to his heart. He reflects that it’s a good thing he’s a ghoul, because the mix of sedation and adrenaline would wreak havoc on a smoothskin’s system. Instead, his body simply works overtime to metabolise the chemicals, and not in a dangerous way, thankfully.

It’s already looking better by the time the fourth stimpack goes in. There’s little to no swelling now, and although he’s still holding onto his leg, everything’s stuck together; if it’s healed up wrong, he’ll have to visit Amari for it. Get it rebroken and fixed up.

“Guess I’ll try walking on it now,” he says, but Vernell shoves him down.

“Give it more time.”

“Bossy,” Hancock says quietly. He licks his lips, looking up at Vernell from hooded eyes. There’s no trace of the Med-X in his system now; it’s been about thirty minutes since they began, and the adrenaline has flushed it out of his bloodstream.  _ What’s he thinking?  _ It’s no 180 of how he was treating him before, but Vernell ain’t half-bad of a caregiver. He’s certainly had worse.

Maybe that’s just the soulmate bond talking, though. The nicer Vernell is to him, the more he’s curious about what it’d be like to reach out and touch the other man’s face.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought about listening to suggestions for having Hancock find out sooner rather than later, but the Mistaken Gender trope is a real favorite of mine. It's going to go on for as long as I fuckin' want it to. :D  
> But don't worry! It'll happen. Soon. Maybe. We'll see.


	8. Tia v4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a short chapter, but at least it's here, right? :3

 

She lets Hancock up after a few minutes, but stays watchful. She doesn't know much about stimpacks. To her, they're a newer invention, mostly used by military and emergency rooms. Nate would know how to use them properly, where to make the injections.

Tia doesn't have a clue. While Nate was overseas playing war, she was attending classes and volleyball championships. Visiting her sister-in-law, Nora, who'd been two weeks pregnant when Nate shipped out.

Nate was better prepared for this world, not that it made much of a difference.

She wonders what he'd think, to see her now. Would he be grudgingly impressed? Angry that she'd made it, and he hadn't, for all his training?

_ Definitely angry,  _ she thinks, but beyond that, she doesn't know. Nate's thoughts and motives were often obscured from her.

“Feels good to me,” Hancock says, pulling her from her thoughts. He's testing his freshly-healed leg, slowly pushing weight down on his toes, the ball of his foot, and finally the heel. His bare feet are incongruous on the creaking floor; less damaged than the rest of him, although the pinky nails on both feet are missing.

Tia shifts uncomfortably. Out of his boots, she can guestimate a more accurate height for Hancock; 5’2”, she thinks, but far heavier than he appears. Tia can carry her weight and more with ease, so he’s certainly less than she is, but she thinks maybe two hundred pounds, compressed somewhere in that wiry frame. She thinks about his metabolism and talk about ‘that science bullshit’ and thinks it seems about right, for him to be double the weight he looks.

“Good,” she echoes.

“So, gotta ask,” he says, conversational as he puts on his coat. “What are you gonna do once I’m out of here? You got a reputation for not talkin’ to people. Are you gonna leave once I’m gone, take yer girl and go somewhere else?”

Tia hums and glances around. Truth be told, she’s been wondering the same thing herself. She isn’t sure if she wants to stay here, but there are a lot of reasons to remain: her defenses, already strong and in place; her material comforts, the books carefully collected and shelved; her mattresses and supplies and the adorable blanket that Hancock had mocked her about.

And Hancock. If she stays here, she'll know where she can find him. If she ever needs him, or if, God forbid, she changes her mind about their relationship. Even if she doesn't want the bond, something intangible flutters between them.

“I don't know yet,” she says. “Are you going to come back for me?”

He smirks. “You asking in a conjugal visitation way, or a dangerous, 'I'm going to wrap up loose ends’ way?”

Tia makes a face.

“Neither,” Hancock says. “I ain't about to kill my own soulmate, and as far as the first, I'm not really interested unless you think you're gonna stick around for good. Like you've been saying all along, this isn't exactly a relationship we can keep casual. But, uh, if you don't mind, I might stop in now and then. Make sure you're still breathing.”

_ Hm.  _ That's not as unwelcome as Tia thought it might be. There are concerns: worry that someone might notice traffic through her turf and decide to investigate; fear that she'll let Hancock in too close, that he'll hurt or betray her.

And yet…

“Alright,” Tia says, and wonders if she's signing her own death warrant.

 

* * *

 

_ Sanctuary, three months and eight days ago _

 

“Tia?”

She glances over at her brother, absentmindedly playing with the ends of her hair. It’s a nervous habit from her middle school days that she thought she’d kicked. Unsurprising; Tia thinks that a nuclear apocalypse would be enough to bring back even the worst and oldest of habits.

“What’s the news?”

“A few supplies,” Nate says, dropping a bundle of goods on the table in the ramshackle house they’re taking shelter in. “Preserved food, bottled water… probably all filled with rads, but it’s the best I could do. A single magazine, half-full of bullets we can’t use.”

It's not enough. It lingers, unsaid, in the musty room. They both know it, the hunger gnawing at their bellies as a constant reminder. When Tia looks at Nate, she sees the subtle drag of sagging skin, a hint of the radiation damage and dehydration slowly tearing them apart from the insides out. All Nate's scavenging is doing is prolonging the inevitable end.

“Maybe we can trade it?” Tia asks hopefully.

“Yeah, that’s if we can even find anyone alive who’ll take ‘em.”

Codsworth, who’s been hovering in the corner thus far, speaks up. “The traders who make a circuit through Massachusetts should be due back in two to three weeks, sir,” he volunteers. “They usually make a stop every four to six months before making their way back to Pittsfield.”

“Three weeks?” Nate’s voice is sharp. “Let’s focus on surviving  _ one  _ week first.”

Codsworth waves an arm tentatively. “Sir, if I may, it might be prudent to send me off on my own to scavenge while you travel in a separate direction. We can find double the supplies that way.”

“And who’s gonna watch my fucking sister, huh?” Nate rubs a hand over his face, weary lines etched deep into his face. He’s aged a decade after watching Nora die, after having his son taken; Tia stays silent and watches. She doesn’t blame him, but thinks privately that she dies quickly. It’s obvious to both Codsworth and even her own brother that she’s nothing but dead weight.

“Well…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Nate grits out, past his clenched teeth and the hand that’s still pressing into his face. “We’ll figure something out. We have more food. We still have some bullets. Water situation is good. We’re good.”

“I can find a better place to hide—”

“I  _ said,  _ don’t fucking worry about it.”

 

* * *

 

The main gate isn’t locked. Tia leaves it this way on purpose, because it’s the easiest entrance and exit for her as well as for people who are running from raiders and Super Mutants and whatever else they dive into her territory to hide from; but this is the first time she’s watching someone leave through it up close. It’s nothing short of terrifying to watch Hancock step out into the open streets, and she wonders how he can do so without going mad with terror. Tia herself only leaves when she absolutely must, and here this pipsqueak of a man is strolling out without a care in the world.

Codsworth had thoughtfully recovered her soulmate’s shotgun from the alley where she’d nearly killed him and brought it to her that morning, on her daily rounds before Hancock woke up. The bot had made himself scarce since, on her orders:  _ I’m going to be looking after Hancock, so you keep an eye on the territory, watch my back for me, alright?  _ Said shotgun is now slung over Hancock’s back, the stock rising above his painfully-thin shoulder.

Tia shifts uneasily at the mouth of the gates. Unlike Hancock, who can’t seem to get away fast enough, she wishes she were deeper inside; that her land would drag her back in and swallow her whole, to be kept safe inside it.

“Which way is Goodneighbor again?” she asks.

Hancock grins, squinting a little through the sunlight, despite the shade offered by his hat. “Just three blocks away, brother. One left, keep goin’ straight until you see the sign. You couldn’t be any closer unless you were livin’ inside the Statehouse with me. Why? You thinking about visiting? Should I tell my guards to expect you?”

Tia frowns.

“Alright, alright, calm down. I won’t say anything.”

That wasn’t what she’d intended with the frown, but she isn’t going to correct him; she just isn’t certain of what he might tell his guards, and she wants to avoid the shame of being introduced as a man to literally everyone Hancock knows. It’s pitiful, embarrassing. She should have said something to Hancock by now.

But that doesn’t matter. She might decide to leave the area altogether, like Hancock had said. She might not ever see him again.

“Well… see you around.” Hancock tips his hat (far more alluring than it should be, good lord) and turns without another word.

Tia doesn’t say anything. She clenches her fists, breathes through her nose, and fights an overwhelming urge to flee the assured protection of her turf and into the uncertain safety of Hancock’s arms.

 


End file.
